May 18th
I’ve been feeling rotten, worried to pieces about what happened with Mr. H. It was a horrible thing we did, sinful, but I can’t get it out of my head. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it, if I hadn’t thought about going back, but as soon as I begin entertaining those notions, I want to throw myself in front of a train or into Hardy’s quarry. I got excited thinking about it the other day and did myself in the bathroom—but I felt like dying after it was over. What’s wrong with me? Mama and Papa would beat me to a pulp if they knew what I did. I should hate Mr. H, but I don’t. I wonder if Jay would understand. I wonder what he’d think. I don’t know. Oh God, I hate this.
May 22nd
I told Jay about what happened with Mr. H, and for the longest time, he just looked at me and smiled like he knew something I didn’t. I wondered if Mr. H had done the same thing to him. He put his hand on mine, leaned in, and kissed me. When we were touching, that rotten feeling boring a hole in my gut disappeared, but once we separated, I could still feel the rumble of it in my stomach. I told him I wanted to leave Royal Oak, I wanted to live in a city or some foreign country, I wanted to be a famous writer and write under a pen name. He smiled and said what would your pen name be? It needs to sound impressive and recognizable, don’t you think? What about Raymond Christie? Or Dashiell Carr? Doing Bette Davis, I said, “Jay, darling, my name is Aaagatha Chandler, so pleeeased to make your acquaintance.”
May 27th
It’s a rainy day, and the eaves of the house are spilling over like waterfalls. I wish I could see Jay today. All I can think about is the kiss we had and how it calmed everything inside me. I feel so rotten and worried when we’re not together. Even Cee, who played cards with me for a while, makes me feel low, like if she really knew how I felt, she’d hate me. I’m trapped until the rain stops. I’ve got to get out of this place.
June 9th
Yesterday we took a dinghy out on Culler’s Lake. Jay packed lunch and toted his camera. I brought a fishing pole and some binoculars. The day was clear, not a cloud in the sky from start to finish. We fished for several hours. I caught five or six bluegill and threw them back. They’re worthless to eat. We rowed into an inlet and went for a swim. After that, we stretched out in the bottom of the boat, ate lunch, and took a nap.
I woke up to Jay taking pictures of me. I felt a little uneasy about it at first, but Jay seemed to enjoy himself, and I liked watching him move around. He posed me, even undoing the top of my trunks a little. “To accentuate your best feature,” he said, smiling like a devil. He taught me how to change the film and adjust the camera, and I took photos of him too.
We put the camera away and rowed the boat deep into an alcove and hid it behind a fallen tree. In the shade on the bank, hidden from everything and everyone, we took off our trunks and saw each other naked for the first time. I thought I would feel guilty if I touched him or if he touched me, but when he kissed me and I felt him against me, none of that mattered, and when he kneeled in front of me, I touched the top of his head. His wet hair was nice and cool against my palm. I wanted to bend down and kiss him, but he took me in his mouth and the rest was shooting stars.
June 13th
When I got to Bunny’s birthday party last night, Jay avoided me. Bunny, as pushy as ever, started shining her blinding light on him. I watched from a distance as she made him take her picture. How he spoke to her, like he was flirting with her, really burned me. Later, he jumped me and pulled me behind a tree and kissed me—but no thank you! How could he flirt with Bunny and then grab me behind a tree? I was so mad I was out of my head. I wanted to kick him, but instead I kicked the tree really hard and, like a chump, hurt my toe. I landed on the ground. He looked at me like I was crazy. “What’s wrong with you?” he said, and I blurted it out I would be eighteen in a week. He just walked away.
I didn’t want to be around anyone. I was feeling pretty hopeless, like going to war meant the end for Jay and me, maybe the end of everything. So I hid down by the shoreline until, of all people, Bunny found me and started grilling me about what I thought of her party and lecturing me about the benefits of enlisting versus being drafted. I really, truly wanted to stick it to her.
Then Jay arrived, ripped off all his clothes, and ran into the lake! It was his way of asking forgiveness. So I followed him, streaking right in front of Bunny. Fuck you, Bunny! We swam across the lake, over a hundred yards to the opposite bank.
In the moonlight, Jay pulled me close to him, and we did it—all the way. It hurt so much at first I thought I couldn’t do it, but then it was like nothing else, and the pain didn’t matter. When it was over and we were lying there holding each other, ignoring the dirt and rocks and the poison oak, I began to cry, keeping my head on his chest so he couldn’t see my eyes. I didn’t want him to know I was going to pieces.
June 18th
I’m eighteen on the 18th. Happy Goddamn Birthday. I’ve never felt so blue. Mama, Papa, and Cee escorted me to the recruiting station on Main Street, and I joined the Navy. They told me to go home and wait for my orders. I tried to see myself standing on the bow of one of those big blue-gray monsters with the wind whipping my clothes and the sun on my face. If I had enough moments like that, I thought, I might just survive the war. But as soon as I felt hopeful, the blues came rushing back. I knew it wasn’t going to be at all like I imagined. I could sense it—how hard the war would make it to dream about the future.
June 20th
This morning I walked down to the creek with Cee. We messed around for a while, skipping stones, trying to catch dragonflies, and reading an old issue of Dime Detective. On our way back, she asked me if I knew why Papa hated the Greenwoods. I told her Papa was angry because they sold the Dixie Dew plant, but that’s not the truth. I know he senses Jay is queer and I am too. I wanted to tell her that’s why he was sending me away. She deserves to know, doesn’t she? Instead, I started to do a dramatic reading of “The Nervous Doorbell,” one of stories in Dime, in my best Orson Welles. She grabbed me around the waist and hugged me. It surprised me, and I almost pushed her away. But instead I hugged her back, crinkling the magazine. She said, “Don’t go!” But I told her I had to. I said it was my duty to my country. She just repeated over and over, “Don’t go.”
July 1st
I’ve been doing some final edits to “A Date with Death.” I’ve decided on a psue pseudonym to publish it under in Weird Stories—Robert Wonderly. Cee’s idea. I don’t know if the story’s any good, but I’m glad Weird Stories likes it. Maybe during downtime at boot camp or overseas, I’ll have time to write. I can send Jay my stories. Cee too. What if I really do become a writer when I return from service? That’d be just swell. I could live the high life in one of those big cities. New York, here I come, and all that. But I shouldn’t take a shine to the idea. Right now my only ticket out of this town is the war. It’s not how I wanted to make my grand exit. It feels more like an ending than a beginning. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was frightened. Actus Dei, right? My fate is in another’s hands, but is it God’s? More like Uncle Sam’s.
July 4th
Jay and I met up at Culler’s Lake at nightfall. We watched the fireworks crash over the lake from a secluded place on the east shore—but I was in a mood. Jay, always the optimist, kissed me and told me not to worry, to think about him, and only him, while I’m gone. Then he began to undress. He said he wanted us to look at each other, to really look, it would be better than any stupid photo. This is what I saw—
his thick blond hair
his straight (perfect) nose
his square chin—a Superman chin
his blue-aquamarine eyes like shallow swimming holes
his wide, bird shoulders
his slim waist
his cock at attention, leaning a little to the right
his muscular runner’s legs
his long calves
his slender-boney feet
the mole on his forearm shaped like West Virginia
>
That’s him. That’s Jay. I’m not sure what he saw in me, but I know I’m not as beautiful, or as manly—but he says he loves my hair and my eyes and my arms and even the deep grooves of my rib cage—and I believe him.
July 10th
I’m going to report for duty on the 16th. My stomach is doing flips. I’m already getting seasick! I tried to escape and find Jay but wasn’t successful. Mama caught me and called me back to the house. She’s never been happier. She was wearing a yellow dress, which looked odd on her, like something Bunny might wear. As I was walking back, she said to me, “You’ll look so handsome in your uniform. The girls will be lining up to meet you. A well-pressed uniform always makes a positive impression!”
I slammed the door as I passed her on the porch. I imagined catching her fingers between the door and frame. Wham! I hate her. I’ve decided I won’t speak to her or Papa from now on. How can they pretend to love me?
Cee hugged me when I told her the news. I’ll miss her so much. I’ll miss reading to her and telling her stories and playing pinochle. I wish I could tell her about Jay, but she won’t understand. She’s only ten.
July 13th
I tried to tell Cee today. I found her hanging laundry out back and asked her if she wanted to go to town to see if Hersh’s had the new Dime Detective. Of course, it hadn’t come in yet, so we had malts and, after a while, I made an attempt to tell her. But looking at her, seeing those wide brown eyes, that stupid goofy look on her face, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. She won’t understand. How can she? I must’ve made her a nervous wreck with all my stammering, though. She threw up her malt on the way home. All over the road. Jesus Christ. This is goddamned awful.
July 15th
I’m in bed now, and I’m looking out of my window at the edge of the woods. The moon is so bright, and the mountains, fields, and trees look like they were all carved from blue stone. Not far from the trees, I see a figure standing at the edge of the woods. It could be a scarecrow, but I don’t remember it being there. I hope it’s Jay. I want him to climb the side of the house and knock on the window and kiss me. If he comes, I will give him this journal and tell him to read it and think of me. He’ll come. I know it. We haven’t said good-bye.
When I had finished reading it, I tied the shoelace around it, triple-knotted the bow, and shoved it under my pillow. I stuffed my face into the mound of feathers. The journal felt hard as stone underneath. Cold too. It was just a sorry piece of you, a one-way conversation, a lousy epitaph. I had so many things to say to you, angry things, things I needed a response to. I didn’t understand what Mr. Hersh had done to you, or why you’d kiss him back like you said, or why you would tell Jay about it. It was beyond the boundaries of what I knew about boys and men. It was the punch line of a dirty joke I was too young to understand.
But your voice coming off those pages was saying something I did understand—that you and Jay loved each other, a love that I’d never in my life seen an example of and, as far as I could tell, wasn’t supposed to happen in the world I knew. And that, above all else, infuriated me. I felt foolish and blind. I wanted you right there in front of me, so I could grab hold of you and give you a shake and say, “Robbie, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me in on your secret? Why didn’t you trust me?”
Of course, I couldn’t do that. You weren’t there, you couldn’t hear me, and your journal couldn’t answer—so I screamed into the down fluff, the muffled howl parting the feathers and stretching the fabric, a whisper by the time it reached you underneath.
That night, I dreamed of you again. I heard your voice deep in my ear, a sharp, low babbling. I didn’t understand what you were saying, but it sounded urgent, like you were repeating the same words over and over, so I got out of bed, crossed the room, and went to my window. I’d left it open and a breeze was stirring the draperies. I felt compelled to peer out, certain it was what you wanted me to do. Drenched in cool, uncanny moonlight, I saw you standing on the lawn in your navy blues, long shadows stretching in front of you, and your Dixie cup cap tipped forward on your forehead, casting a deep shadow over your face. You weren’t looking at me; you were looking at something at the edge of the woods, a movement in the underbrush. My heart began racing. I was sure something bad was waiting under the canopy of the trees.
I called out to you and you looked up at me. “Robbie,” I said, “get inside! Quick!” But when you tried to move, you couldn’t. Your feet were buried up to the ankles in the yard, the soil packed tight around your pants legs, planted there like one of Papa’s trees! I called again. The look on your face was so blank, so empty. I’ll never forget it. That’s when I woke up and let out a little scream.
The next morning, I dropped a note at the tree.
TO: JAY.
MEET ME HERE AT 2:00 PM.
FROM: C.
I wrote it in big, messy block letters, holding the crayon like a dagger.
He was there before I was, leaning against the dead tree, smiling, holding his cane. His leg must’ve been acting up.
I trotted up to him, pulled out your journal, and shoved it at him. I gave him my damn-you-to-hell stare. He held out his hand, slow and easy like it was no big deal, and I forced the book into it.
“Are you okay?” he asked, clamping his fingers around the leather binding.
I did an about-face, stirring dirt at my feet, and started my journey back up the hill. He called after me until he caught up. He rapped the side of my leg with his cane, and I stopped.
“What’s the matter?” he said. His face was sweaty and as white as a sheet.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“Why?”
“Mama and Papa told me to never talk to you again. Ever. Period.”
“What happened to your cheek?”
I had tried to comb my hair close to my face, so he wouldn’t see the cut and bruise.
“Papa.”
“He did that!”
“I can’t talk to you.”
“What about Lily? We’re getting close to a breakthrough.”
“It’s not important.”
“What do you mean ‘it’s not important’?”
He had you, and now he had your journal. What else did he want? “It’s not important. You’re not important,” I said.
He was leaning forward in pain, putting pressure on his cane, the tip sinking in the soft ground. He looked defeated and weak, and I hated him for it. I saw his body slamming hard against the side of Bunny’s Olds. I wanted to do that to him, break him in two. I wanted to channel Billy’s rage. Instead, I stepped forward and gave him my best playground shove. He stumbled back a few feet, wobbled, and hit the hillside with a thud, bracing himself so he wouldn’t roll into the valley. His cane clattered against a few stones.
“Why did you do that?” he yelped, his face pinched and horrible. “You pushed me. Why would you do that?”
“I don’t care about Lily or your stupid clues or any of it!”
“You don’t mean that.” Tears were welling in his eyes. He made like he was going to stand, reaching out his hand. “Please,” he croaked. “Help me up.”
“Stay away from me!” I said. “Just stay away.”
“You don’t really mean it?” he said. His face was red and feverish.
I said nothing. We just stared at each other. When he reached for me again, I jumped back and started to run. He called after me, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t stop until I was home.
6
A DATE WITH
DEATH
The Future
Sheila found herself back in the study with the photo album. She felt braver now. Kenneth wasn’t going to hold her back anymore. She wasn’t going to be just another lonely sucker waiting for a man, like those silly birds at the office. The future was out there, hers for the taking. She wanted to know what was inside the photo album. She wanted to take the dare, her aunt’s warning be damned.
She paused, exhaled, and opened the
leather-bound cover, skipping the first page. The photos on the second page were weathered black-and-whites of the house. The first photo was of the house at a distance, deep in the valley and encircled by fog. How imposing it looked! In the next photo, the house was closer and the image crisper. All the architectural details stood out, but the house’s windows were black as pitch.
Shelia flipped the page. These photos were faded color shots of the interior of the house: the front parlor, with its hues of deep purple and dusty scarlet; the hall, with its mahogany wainscoting; the three-quarters staircase, on the landing of which stood sentinel an imposing grandfather clock. It was odd, she thought, that she hadn’t seen a single photo of a person.
The next page was stiff and difficult to turn, the spine of the album cracking as she flattened it out. The first photo on this page was strange. It was the back of a woman sitting in the study, much as she was right then. The next photo made her gasp. She stopped, collected herself, and tried to reason it out, but there was no logic, no clear explanation for what she was seeing. Pictured in bright Technicolor was a photo of her leaning over the album!
Suddenly, the room burst with light, followed by the pop and crackle of a flashbulb—or was it lightning? She heard no thunder. She looked at the photos again. In the next one, her face was in full view. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open. A mask of fear. She glanced around the room, sure she was being watched by some boogeyman with a camera. No one was there. She began furiously flipping pages of the album.
There was a photo of her in her car, rain beating the windshield. In another photo, she was running with an umbrella over her head, her feet in a puddle. In another, she was sitting at a bar having a drink. She turned the pages faster. Then she was with a man in a dark blue suit—an Errol Flynn look-alike with eyes of black onyx and a full, glowing set of teeth. She was talking to him. He was smiling at her. Then they were in the house, in the bedroom. In the next photo, his arms were around her, holding her.
She closed the book, wrapped it in the cloth, shoved it in the safe, and spun the dial. Her breath was shallow, and she was light-headed. She needed to leave the house. Now.
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